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Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Last night I watched HOWL, the biopic about Allen Ginsberg on Netflix and was
completely inspired. My poetry has been on hiatus since
focusing on writing fiction for kids. I’ve sporadically written some poetry,
particularly when there isn’t much time for writing anything else.

HOWL reminded me of my brush with Allen Ginsberg and the
Beat Poets when I lived at 437 East 12street in 1989; where late one night, the
howls of Ginsberg’s love Peter Orlovsky meet with the ambulance siren on the
street, while my radio simultaneously reiterated the Beat generation's poetry.
It was surreal. I thought messages were being sent to me—I always think I’m on
the receiving line of some great truth.

I was a spunky twenty-something in 1989. It’s no wonder the
apartment on east 12 street is where I began typing (on a rotary
typewriter) in my attempt at writing fiction.

I had been writing poetry, lots and lots of poetry, for
years. My earliest novella, at twelve, was taken by the school
bus driver and never seen again.

Let’s say, it was the vibe of the building, which I barely
understood at the time. But the frequent Beat messages poured unto me from all over and surrounded me. There were other poets in the building, and literary luminaries
coming and going.

One day a man with black straggly hair knocked on my apartment door, and said his
name was Richard Hell; he loved the music I was playing, said everyone
should hear it. He ordered me to turn the music up--way up. The music was The Dead Can
Dance.

Soon before I moved out of the building, I found a treasury of books that I was sure belonged
to Allen Ginsberg, and he had put the books in a box on my floor—the second
floor, just for me: Ken Kesey, George Bernard Shaw, Steinbeck’s Grapes of
Wrath; books on philosophy, theosophy--so many, which I still have. I knew (or
made believe) they once belonged to the Great Ginsberg, and he gave them to me--as
a beacon, a glimpse of my path, as I imagined that I was meant to write.
Oh, to sweet dreams.

Poetry for me was fast and quick, I could go anywhere with it.
Instant gratification. Who knew, I would love the long haul of novel writing:
the years of commitment, the revisions, the draft; the world I could paint with
words.

I’ve had little time lately to revise my WIP #3 –but with
Poetry, I can keep my fingers greased and my mind fluid, so I won’t feel locked
out of my world of fiction.

Today, I made the promise to myself to write one Blog entry before beginning this
workday. What do you write when you can’t dig in to your novel?

My apt was on the second floor to the right of entrance. Inspiring times.

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Hello!

A member of SCBWI. Contributor to @TheKidliterati ~ Mother of teens.
I can be found during daylight hours writing in the basement of a jazz club. When there's time to play, I sing and write songs or paint with watercolors and pretend I never have to grow up.